by Hazel Holt
She came slowly towards me and I found that I was unable to move. I drew in my breath sharply and the cold, damp, charnel-house smell of the place caught me by the throat so that I thought I would choke.
A breeze from the half-open door caught the naked bulb, high in the ceiling, making the shadows move and casting its harsh light on Eleanor’s distorted face.
She came right up to me until her face almost touched mine and I was rigid with fear. Instinctively I shut my eyes and prepared myself for the blow I knew must come.
Suddenly she gave a loud cry, harsh and torn with pain like a wounded animal, and pushed me with all her strength. I fell sideways and she rushed past, through the heavy oak door. For a moment I lay there. My head was hurting from where I had hit it against the wall and blood was oozing from my arm where it had been grazed against the cold, rough stone. The effort required to move seemed intolerable, but slowly I managed to get to my feet and stood in the doorway, supporting myself painfully against the massive doorpost. A fine driving rain was falling as I looked out across the churchyard.
Eleanor was lying on the grass beside Sir Ernest’s grave, curled up like a child, sobbing as if her heart would break.
END
